


I held your hand as you shook in the middle of the night

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (not in an angsty way more in a 'you guys need to have a Talk and finally kiss' way), 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sickfic, almost getting together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Five times Jaskier snuggles up with Geralt, and one time Geralt seeks him out instead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 211
Kudos: 775





	I held your hand as you shook in the middle of the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildlySalted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildlySalted/gifts).



> This originated from a comment left by MildlySalted under [this other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044161), so in theory it should be considered a companion piece, but I think it can stand on its own. The references to that previous fic are mostly in the first section.  
>  Also, it should probably be noted that I'm pretty sure in Rare Species Jaskier and Geralt did not have a tent, but, well, they have one here because it's convenient for me LOL.  
>  The title is from "Not Yet/Love Run" by The Amazing Devil, that cursed band that I've been listening to on repeat for like a month now, forgetting that other music exists. I hate titling things, I was going to borrow lyrics from them at some point.  
>  As I mentioned in the tags, this isn't exactly a "getting-together" fic, which is why I'm trying to work on a sequel. It's giving me a few problems but hopefully I will be able to post it as a bonus chapter soon. In the meantime, enjoy all the self-indulgent cuddling!  
>   
>  EDIT: There's now [art inspired by this fic](https://puakaba.tumblr.com/post/627673209548980224/), made by puakaba! Check it out, it's _gorgeous_. ~~and yes, that sound that you hear is me, crying.~~




‘I’ll stay hidden and be quiet,’ Jaskier had said. ‘You won’t even know I’m here,’ he’d said.

Geralt would be lying if he said he didn’t know that was unlikely to happen, but Jaskier was relentless and kept insisting that a cemetery is _the most poetic and inspirational location he could think of_ , and fuck it, Ghouls hunt in small groups anyway, he figured he'd be able to keep the whole thing from going sideways.

It wasn’t a complete disaster, and Jaskier did stay hidden for most of the battle, but what he _didn’t_ do was keeping his tongue in check, instead crying out in warning for him because he was scared that Geralt would get jumped by one of those putrid things.

(Which, he _might_ have been, but he would have wrestled his way out of it, for fuck’s sake.)

That was enough for Jaskier to catch the attention of _another_ Ghoul, and suffice to say that Geralt is insanely glad that he decided to give him a silver knife and teach him how to use it. Fortunately, Jaskier had picked up on it impressively quickly, and he was able to avoid getting his head bitten off.

They both came out of it unscathed, Jaskier a little too twitchy and talking without interruption all the way back. Geralt let him without complaint, hoping that it’d help him fend off the nerves after a brush with death.

That — does not happen.

They get back to the inn, sinking into their respective beds, and though Jaskier is no longer chattering his ears off he _won’t stay still_.

It’s normal, expected even. Geralt could probably let it go: it wasn’t a particularly taxing contract, and he’s had plenty of sleep in the past few days, if Jaskier were to keep him awake all night it wouldn’t be that much of a problem, but, well, _Jaskier_ does need the sleep.

And Geralt has no intention of letting him sleep the whole way through tomorrow when they could get back to travelling. Nor does he want to hear him complain that he’s too tired and ‘I saved your life, you ungrateful arse!’.

Which is not what happened. The attempt at helping was misguided and unnecessary. _Still_.

Geralt rolls on his back, still hearing every shift and turn while Jaskier fails to get settled, and he searches for _something_ to say, something to _help_ , but he comes up short. The only thing that he can think about is Jaskier’s insistence that being near him _calms him down_. It usually seems to be true.

He still is not sure he should offer.

Yet, at the millionth ragged breath he hears while Jaskier rolls on his back as well, hitting his head rather violent against the pillow, it slips out.

“Jaskier.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he sighs, annoyed, rubbing both hands on his face. “No more tossing and turning. I’ll try.”

Geralt presses his lips together, clenching his jaw. “No,” he says, slowly. He _definitely_ should offer. The reason why Jaskier almost got himself killed is that he was concerned for _him_. “Do you want to come here?” he asks, gruffly, turning on his side so he can better look at him. 

Jaskier’s head snaps towards him, but it’s only a moment of stunned silence before he breathes out ‘Yes, _please’_ and jumps on his feet, not even questioning the offer.

Geralt makes some room for him, as much as the wall will allow him at least, but Jaskier does not seem particularly interested in personal space, as he gets settled close enough that his back is brushing against Geralt’s chest.

“I like your bed much better, thank you,” Jaskier makes sure to say, the smile bleeding through his voice even if he can’t see him. He quickly arranges the pillow so that he’s more comfortable, then he sinks to it, letting out a breath.

Geralt just watches him, listens to his uneven breaths and waits for the tension in his shoulders to dissipate, but the situation doesn’t seem to completely resolve itself. Jaskier shifts a little, bumping lightly against his chest as if to _nudge_ him, and, well.

Geralt thinks that maybe he should say something, like ‘You did a good job today’, but that’s not entirely true – the last thing he wants is for him to think that he should try anything like that _ever_ again – and, besides, he’s almost certain he said something to that effect right after the battle – it was that or ‘At least you remembered how to properly use the fucking knife’, hard to tell –, and his tongue is _not working_.

So he does something stupid, what he thinks Jaskier is trying to ask for. He throws one arm around him, hardly putting any weight on him as he waits for a sign of distress or uncomfortableness telling him to back off.

It turns out to be unnecessary: Jaskier hardly even stills before he takes a hold of his arm, pulling it more tightly around himself and causing Geralt to press himself against his back.

“I promise I’ll sleep now,” Jaskier says, quietly, curling a little more on himself, his fingers still clinging to Geralt’s arm like he’s afraid he might take it away.

Geralt just hums in acknowledgement, because, honestly, what the fuck is he even supposed to say here?

It’s with the exact same sense of disbelief and wonder as the first time that he watches as Jaskier slowly relaxes and eventually falls asleep, perfectly at ease with the new arrangement. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to it.




Jaskier’s very fervid imagination is, generally speaking, a blessing. Though Geralt lived through plenty of adventures that would make a worthy tale, he is never particularly cooperative when it comes to making a decent narrative out of it, so Jaskier is left with bare facts and a lot of embellishments that he needs to come up with all by himself.

A lesser man would probably pale at the challenge, really.

The one downside to the way his brain works is that it is just about as energic as _he_ is, and even during the night his story crafting abilities decide to make themselves useful. Sometimes it’s to create pleasant dreams that leave him smiling in the morning, other times he finds himself trying to piece back together long and convoluted narratives that are extremely _weird_ even for a bard travelling alongside a Witcher, and then there are those times when the dreams are not at _all_ pleasant, though just as vivid as the others, leaving him with invisible hands squeezing his lungs even after he’s woken up to a quiet night and no danger in sight.

Tonight he’s lucky and he remembers but scratches, feelings, faint images that he pointedly avoids trying to grasp. The last thing that he needs is to burn that shit into memory, thank you very much.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, though it gets stuck half-way down and it leaves him feeling more suffocated than before. He’s lying on his back, one arm squeezed painfully between him and the wall – it reminds him of the sharp ache going all the way from his shoulder down to his fingertips in his dream, while he scrambled out of some tavern to run from something terrifying enough that he didn’t dare turning around –, and if he simply turns his head he can make out Geralt, asleep on his side with one arm under the pillow.

It helps, reminding himself that he isn’t alone and that, really, there’s hardly anything that could get to him given the company he keeps, but as he frees his arm and he shifts a little in Geralt’s direction he finds that the restlessness hasn’t quite left him, his muscles aching from the tension and a lump in his throat.

Turning on his side, he finds himself closer to Geralt than he had necessarily planned and, well, that gives him ideas. Or, more specifically, one idea, which historically shouldn’t exactly _trouble_ his friend, but it’s also true that he usually doesn’t sneakily do this while Geralt isn’t awake to protest.

“Hopefully you won’t kill me for this in the morning,” he whispers, moving to curl up against Geralt’s chest, waiting a moment to see if he’s showing any signs of waking up. He isn’t, and Jaskier can’t help the small smile twisting his lips: when they first started travelling together, Geralt would jolt awake every time Jaskier so much as stood up to take a leak, alerted by the possible threat. In time, he seems to have become just as familiar and innocuous as Roach to Geralt’s ears, and he can even get away with playing a tune, he’s discovered.

It's always warming to be reminded that Geralt _trusts_ him.

Geralt sleeps with one arm above the blanket, against his side. On a wave of enthusiasm and looking for some more comfort, Jaskier decides to try a risky move and grab his sleeve, gently manoeuvring Geralt’s arm so that he’s now comfortably hidden in some sort of embrace, curled up with his hands to his chest and his nose brushing against Geralt’s shirt.

He lets out a slow breath, finally closing his eyes and trying to think happy thoughts so that he may slip into a few more hours of – hopefully peaceful, this time – sleep.

It doesn’t take long before Geralt’s arm tightens around him, if only in a light squeeze of what could pass for reassurance. He supposes it’s _plausible_ that it was only an involuntary reflex, but Jaskier smiles anyway, shifting a little closer with a hum of appreciation.

If there’s a chance that Geralt just wants to pretend like he is asleep, he will let him, but he still won’t neglect to thank him, one way or another.




“I’m dying,” Jaskier moans, burying his face in his pillow. He emerges just enough to crack one eye open. “Can I get a hug if I’m dying?” he asks, voice muffled by the way his cheek is pressed against the pillow.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You are not dying.”

“I am,” Jaskier sighs, miserably. “You can’t let me slip away wondering if you ever even loved me.”

“I’ll clear it up: I don’t.”

Though the fact that he’s currently torturing himself by sitting on a small chair next to his bed might beg to differ. He didn’t have much of a choice: there’s some kind of festival in town, so the inn was almost out of rooms and they had no doubles available, but keeping going about on the road would not have been a good thing for Jaskier’s fever, much less after the three days of rain they just had.

“Lies and slander,” Jaskier waves him off, closing his eyes with a sigh. “You love me.” He blesses him with a few moments of silence, then he cracks one eye open once again. “Will you say nice things about me when I’m gone?”

“At this rate, I’ll be the one to kill you.”

Jaskier pouts, considering him. “Maybe,” he eventually says. “But you’d feel really bad about it. ‘Cause you’re all soft and — and _mushy_ , on the inside.” He appears satisfied of his thesis, and he flashes him a smile.

Geralt shakes his head in obvious disapproval, letting his eyes drift away. Thankfully, with enough rest and now that they are somewhere _dry_ , this should pass soon enough.

Once again, the silence doesn’t last anywhere nearly long enough.

“…Geralt?”

He briefly closes his eyes, calling upon his remaining patience. “Hmm.”

Jaskier looks at him for a few moments, reaching out to play with Geralt’s sleeve, even tugging him forward a little as he pouts. “I really do want a hug, though.”

It might be time to start facing the fact that Jaskier might not let this go.

For a moment, Geralt considers just standing up and leaving him there, he’s confident enough that he won’t _die_ , after all, but Jaskier keeps staring at him with pleading eyes, his cheeks up in flames and that _pout_ —

“Oh, for fuck’s sake — _fine_ ,” he eventually bursts out, shaking Jaskier’s hand off him as he gets up. “Move over.”

Jaskier looks _delighted_ by this new development, and though he’s a little uncoordinated and it takes him a few moments to untangle himself from the sheets and scoot closer to the wall, he does make enough room for Geralt to lie down. Jaskier wastes no time using his shoulder as a pillow, draping himself around Geralt’s torso and sighing contently as Geralt hesitantly wraps one arm around him in return, to keep him in place.

“I’ll die happy now,” Jaskier declares, lightly.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “ _Again_ , you are not dying.”

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement, nuzzling against his shoulder. “If you say so, darling.”

Geralt might accidentally squeeze him tighter by reflex. He definitely doesn’t want to think about it.




The first thing he hears is sobbing, tearing through his head and shooting electricity through his veins to push him to _move_ , do _something_ —

_Fuck, Jaskier_ , he realizes a moment later, when he recognizes the scent and the voice as he opens his eyes and tries to push himself up, with not the _faintest_ idea of what the fuck is going on, but —

Jaskier jumps back with a shriek, making him wince and wish for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. He looks _terrified_ , tears all over his face and clothes half-covered in blood. He can’t see any obvious injury, though Jaskier’s breathing certainly is ragged enough to make him wonder if he is wrong about that.

“What the fuck — what the _fuck_ — _Geralt_ —”

Jaskier launches forward, scrambling on his knees until he’s close enough to get a solid grip on his arms, holding tight enough that he has to wonder if he’s trying to leave marks there or what.

“ _How_ — you are _alive_ —”

Geralt barely has time to take in the way Jaskier’s eyes are desperately searching his face for who knows what and remember that _right_ , there was a Bruxa that he was fighting, fucking annoying blasted things, when he gets yanked into a hug, Jaskier stifling a sob in his shoulder as he wraps his arms around him and proceeds to begin shaking like a leaf.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , you’re _alive_ —” he breathes out, with barely a string of voice, and Geralt realizes a few moments too late that he’s just sitting there limply while Jaskier sobs, shakes and smells like he’s scared to death. He hesitates before bringing up his arms and, realizing that his hands are covered in blood and dirt and they probably _shouldn’t_ go anywhere nearly Jaskier’s hair, he settles for clinging to his back in return. Those clothes are already ruined anyway.

“ _How_?” Jaskier asks then, after taking a steadying breath and somehow clinging to him harder. “I was _certain_ — you were cold as death! Your heart wasn’t _beating_!”

“Hmm, yeah, it’s slow,” Geralt mutters, eyeing the dead Bruxa on his far left. Jaskier wasn’t even supposed to follow him, if he had arrived _before_ the damn thing died — “It’s the mutations.”

“And you didn’t think to fucking _mention_ that?!” Jaskier yells, though he doesn’t pull back in the slightest. Geralt winces at the sound, but he doesn’t protest. “Fuck! _How_ has this never come up before?!”

Why would it have? It’s something obvious, for Geralt, he doesn’t exactly spend his days thinking about every little thing that his body does differently from humans. And he has never come _this_ close to bleeding out on Jaskier’s watch before.

Some of the fight seems to drain out of Jaskier, as he drops more of his weight on him, shaking his head slightly against his shoulder.

They should get up. Geralt is hardly going to die in the next five minutes, but he’s _tired_ and probably still bleeding and he doesn’t want to pass out again. Not before he has his hands on his potions, at least.

“If you don’t think I’m going to sleep with you tonight you are so _wrong_ ,” Jaskier mutters, breathing shakily against him and still trembling slightly.

Geralt’s stomach clenches, not too unpleasantly, and he grits his teeth. “We can sleep however you like,” he says, gruffly. “Just help me get back to Roach.”

Jaskier immediately shoots back, as if burned, giving him a panicked look. “Fuck, _fuck_ , you’re right, you’re hurt, sorry —” He swallows heavily, still not breathing right, his fingers twitching around Geralt’s biceps. “Can you walk, what do I do?”

There’s some corner of Geralt’s mind longing to find a reassurance to offer, anything at all that might chase that terror off him, but the words won’t come and he doesn’t have the energy to press. “Help me up,” he mutters eventually. “I need to get that head.”

Jaskier’s protests that they should get back to camp and retrieve it later fall on deaf ears – he is _not_ making an extra trip just to avoid spending three extra minutes on his feet before he can finally settle down for a moment –, and with a fresh head in hand they make the way back, Geralt leaning a little more heavily on Jaskier’s shoulders than he would have liked but without incident.

He lets Jaskier talk him into waiting until the morning to go retrieve his payment, and blessedly soon he is patched up and lying down, his pounding head sighing in relief as he finally closes his eyes. As promised, Jaskier doesn’t even _ask_ before joining him, quiet shuffling alerting him that he has company. Geralt doesn’t even open his eyes, just shifting a little farther to his right to make things easier.

Jaskier’s hair prickling his chin and his heartbeat so _close_ somehow help his body accept that he really is done for the day, that he has earned the right to a little corner of quietness, and before long, Geralt is asleep.




Jaskier is brought back to reality by Geralt’s annoyed huff, followed by a growled: “Are you done grumbling?”

For a moment, he is too stunned and honestly _offended_ by the _nerve_ to even answer. He gapes like a graceless fish, his lips pushing to twist upwards in a show of plain disbelief, and Geralt just keeps staring at him, eyebrows raised like he doesn’t realize what exactly he just said.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Jaskier eventually manages to get out, with all the flare that he can muster. “Is my bad mood ruining your evening? What a _plight_ it must be, having to endure the company of a man who communicates through displeased growls! How you must suffer!”

Geralt fixes him with that unimpressed look of his that hides quite a bit of fondness underneath the surface, and Jaskier likes to think that he’s somehow happy that he’s started talking again. He hadn’t actually realized how long he’d spent in silence, mulling over what happened.

“I don’t know what you are still so cross about,” Geralt mutters, taking one last look at his newly polished sword before putting it away for the night.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jaskier says, tapping his chin for dramatic effect. “Maybe that we are out here in the cold when we _should_ have been sleeping in a real bed between four walls?”

Geralt shrugs. “You could have stayed.”

Jaskier snorts, _loudly_. “No, I _couldn’t_ have,” he says, pointedly. “Assholes,” he spits out then, under his breath, anger flaring up in his chest for just about the millionth time that evening.

As a matter of fact, he came _this_ close to stabbing someone today, he probably _would_ have if Geralt hadn’t grabbed him by the back of his doublet, yanking him back like some misbehaving kitten as he pointedly said: “We are _leaving_.” Jaskier might have been a little offended, had he not been so busy being _pissed_ at those ungrateful bastards not even letting them stay the night after Geralt saved all of their sorry arses.

“You should have let me punch him,” Jaskier laments, the face of the asshole alderman still so _clear_ in his head, that very punchable nose a regret that he will probably carry with him for the rest of his life.

“There were too many,” Geralt simply says, which would imply that he would have let Jaskier defend him had there been less opponents, which is _blatantly untrue_. Half the reason why the population in the Continent is still standing is that Geralt likes saving people _and_ has no will to strike them back when they mistreat him, which is — beyond infuriating.

Fighting back is _unnecessary_ , according to Geralt. It’s fine, he says. He doesn’t _care_ , he says.

Yeah, well, Jaskier does care, and he has enough rage for the both of them.

“You underestimate me,” he says, because he is pretty sure that he would have taken down quite a few of them. He would have had to endure a few hits, but it would have been absolutely worth it.

Geralt raises his eyebrows, the smallest flash of a smile appearing on his face for a moment. “No, I don’t. If I let you pick a fight whenever you want to, you’d have more blood on your hands than I do.”

“Yeah, well, some assholes just have it coming,” Jaskier mutters, anger boiling in his stomach once again, but he doesn’t press any further. He’s already shared his thoughts on the matter, at _length_ , and honestly he’d much rather find a way to make Geralt forget all about it.

He'd be all too tempted to go to him and wrap him in a hug, but it’d hardly be met with gratitude. Jaskier can, at this point, confidently rule out that he’d be _killed_ for it, but he wouldn’t exclude the possibility of Geralt keeping six feet of distance from him for the next _week_ if he were to spook him like that.

Still, Jaskier is a poor, empathetic soul and as the anger dissipates he’s just left feeling horribly _sad_ for the reality that his friend has to live in, and he has to do _something_ not to die inside.

Which is why, when it is time to get some sleep, he swiftly slides in right beside Geralt.

“What are you doing?” comes the expected question, though he doesn’t sound particularly annoyed.

“This forest might hide all sorts of vile, _horrible_ creatures. I need protection,” Jaskier announces, keeping his back on Geralt as he gets better settled, leaving hardly any space between them. He knows by now that letting Geralt hide his face is a good way to help him feel less awkward about things. There’s less of a chance that he’ll be pushed off this way. 

Geralt snorts, and Jaskier can almost hear his eye-roll. “I’ve already killed the vile and horrible creatures in this forest, Jaskier,” he says, his tone close to bemused. He doesn’t push him away though, letting him rest against his chest and even wrapping one arm around him, if with a little hesitance.

Jaskier, who is by now used to it, immediately takes a hold of his arm, cradling Geralt’s hand to his chest and barely resisting the urge to lay a kiss on his knuckles when what bit of common sense he has argues that it’d be too much.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” he says instead, softly. “Thank you for watching over me.”

+1

It’s already dark outside, and Geralt is nowhere to be seen. Jaskier would like to think that he might simply be still sitting alone, trying to push back all those nasty feelings that he likes to claim he doesn’t have, but he knows that he’s probably with Yennefer.

Which is fine. It’s _fine_.

It’s not like he was _expecting_ — he didn’t even _properly_ confess anything, even though he came as close as he dared to, and it’s not like there’s that big a chance of Geralt settling down with Yennefer somewhere, or starting to follow her around — chances are, once this whole deal with the dragon is done with, things will simply slide back to normal. Yennefer will be gone, Jaskier will be pathetically and embarrassingly _clear_ about his feelings, and Geralt will keep not noticing, going on about his usual business until the next time they will stumble upon her.

It's _fine_.

Still, somewhere in his stomach he feels a strong pang of disappointment, because he is a romantic at heart and for a _minute_ , eyeing Geralt’s tiny smile and not having yet heard a plain refusal of his proposal to go away, together – to choose _him_ –, he dared to hope.

Alone in an empty tent, which they only have because Jaskier kept pestering Geralt about it after the last time they got drenched in rain, he draws a heavy sigh, rolling on his side to grab his lute and wrap himself around it, because might as well at this point. Geralt will hardly come by and judge him, he will be too busy fucking Yennefer.

Which is _fine_. He didn’t expect anything else.

He is still busy trying to calculate how unrealistic it would be of him to hope for some decent sleep, when he hears heavy footsteps and the sound of shuffling as Geralt crutches down to enter their small – barely large enough for two, really, but they don’t make use of it that often anyway – tent.

“Oh — oh, hey,” Jaskier mutters, his heart leaping in his throat as he promptly shoots up in a sitting position, hopefully letting go of his lute quickly enough that Geralt won’t think to make a quip about it.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Geralt says, gruffly, and he still sounds a little too morose.

Jaskier’s stomach clenches unpleasantly, which contrasts sharply with the way his brain is celebrating the fact that Geralt is _not_ with Yennefer. He came back. He came to _him_.

He manages a shrug, clearing his throat before he speaks. “I tried, but maybe I’m not that tired,” he says, not a complete lie since he’s now even more awake than he was before. His voice comes out sounding innocent enough, thank the gods.

Geralt hums in acknowledgement, hesitating before he starts moving forward. Jaskier is quick to lie down on his back, shifting a little to the side to make sure that Geralt will have enough room to join and so that the invitation to keep moving cannot be missed.

He doesn’t think it’s by accident that Geralt lies down half turned on his side, leaving some space between them in spite of the way his whole body is tense with the effort.

Jaskier blows out some air. “You know, you can come closer,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “I don’t bite.” He goes as far as patting his shoulder with his fingers, though he highly doubts that Geralt will take him up on _that_ offer. Just because he has surrendered to the idea of being Jaskier’s favourite pillow and he will indulge him surprisingly often, it doesn’t mean that there is any chance in hell that he will let him return the favour.

A few moments of silence go by, Jaskier’s throat clogged with anxiety, but eventually there’s shuffling and Geralt slides all the way towards him. It’s only when his head is hovering a breath over Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt still hesitating, that Jaskier realizes that oh _fuck_ , they are _actually_ doing this, oh oh _gods_ —

In spite of the chaos unleashing in his head, he somehow manages to readily throw out his arm, wrapping it around Geralt’s shoulders and giving him the final push to rest his head against his shoulder.

The additional weight immediately cuts off Jaskier’s air supply, certainly not for any physical reasons, and he has to put some effort into not taking deep, steadying breaths that will give him away immediately. Unfortunately, there isn’t much that he can do about his throbbing heart, and he feels his cheeks heat up when Geralt shifts a little.

This is _so_ stupid, they are always sharing beds, it’s _okay_ , _calm the fuck down, Jask, for the love of_ —

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, his tone a touch amused, because the bastard _knows_ , with his stupid Witchery senses —

“Great,” he immediately says, maybe a little too high-pitched. “This is a nice, uhm, nice change of pace.”

He needs something to say, anything to fill the silence and distract them both while he acquaints himself with the situation and maybe, _hopefully_ manages to get his foolish heart to take it easy, both in terms of beats _and_ hopes, because just because Geralt came to him it doesn’t necessary follow that there is something implied in between the lines here. It _doesn’t_.

“I thought you’d go to Yennefer,” he blurts out before he can think it through, only realizing how stupid it was a second too late. He doesn’t want to give him _ideas_ , dammit.

Geralt breathes in, silent for a long moment, but he doesn’t get up to follow his suggestion, so that’s something. “I thought about it,” he eventually says.

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement, waiting to see if Geralt will elaborate, foolish a hope as that may be.

There is no more talking for an infinite stretch of time, but Jaskier does manage to calm himself down. Strangely enough, Geralt slowly wrapping one arm around his torso, leaning a little more heavily into him, helps things _settle_ for him.

He reaches up to the hand clinging to his shirt, brushing his fingers against Geralt’s knuckles.

“So,” he eventually says, lightly, when the silence begins to feel a little too thick. “Are you expecting me to protect you from the monsters?”

The teasing has the intended effect: Geralt snorts, and some tension drains from his shoulders. “That excuse didn’t make a lick of sense half the times you used it,” he comments, not unkindly.

“Why did you indulge me then?”

Geralt shrugs. There’s a moment of hesitation, the hand resting on Jaskier’s chest twitching slightly, and he could _swear_ that Geralt nuzzled a little against his shoulder. “I didn’t mind it,” he mutters, gruffly.

Jaskier takes a breath, giving him a squeeze that he hopes will bring some reassurance. Maybe it does, because Geralt leans into his touch.

“Dare I say that it — pleased you?” Jaskier finds the courage to ask, not as off-handed as he would have liked.

He doesn’t have to wait anywhere nearly as long as he would have guessed before the answer comes. “Yeah,” Geralt says, slowly. “You could say that.”

His heartrate picks up speed again. “Alright,” he manages to murmur in lieu of an answer, his thoughts racing, because they will need to _talk_ about this, because he is making assumptions and taking for granted that Geralt is speaking in the same coded language as he is, which is _not a good idea_ , and — the temptation to ask is strong.

Yet, it’s been a long day, and he knows that for Geralt this kind of conversation would be like pulling teeth, so no, it can wait until the morning. For now, he’ll just nest in his hopes and dreams, which are suddenly feeling a lot more tangible than he would have thought possible.

“Let’s get some sleep, shall we?” he says, an easy smile on his face as he looks down on Geralt, who can probably see a lot more clearly than he can. Geralt isn’t looking up to him, though, curled up with his head slightly bowed as he hums in agreement.

Jaskier’s heart clenches rather pleasantly, and he thinks that if he gets eaten by a dragon tomorrow, at least he’ll die the happiest that he’s ever been.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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